by Rachel Lee
Glaring at her, he strode past close enough to brush her shoulder. She flinched. Steaming full speed ahead, he lunged toward the unfinished garage wall, and between two planks of wood he did his damn best to ram his fist through the insulation padding. Thwap! It took three good punches to break through. When the ringing in his ears stopped and the stinging in his knuckles brought him back to the present, he glanced first at the hole in the wall, then at Jocelyn. She stood stock-still, as if incapable of moving, alarm radiating from her eyes.
He hated that look, and he’d put it there.
Damn it all to hell, he’d frightened the crap out of her. He wanted to punch the wall again but forced control. “I’m sorry, Joss.” He moderated his tone, sounding dead, flat and obligatory. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Clamping her lips tight, she recoiled when he took a step toward her. It made him queasy. “I’d never hurt you, Jocelyn. I swear. I’d never hit a woman.”
Her chin quivered, and he saw a battle inside her as she must have tried to make sense of his outburst. “I know you wouldn’t. I’ve just never seen you like that before.”
“Look, I told you this PTSD crap is a bitch. I’m not the guy I used to be. You can’t say I haven’t warned you.”
“I understand.” By the expression on her face, she looked anything but understanding. She still looked scared as hell.
Silence ruled the moments as he licked and bit his lips and tried to make eye contact with her again. She avoided his gaze, chewing the corner of her mouth. “Have you thought about therapy? Don’t they have groups of soldiers with the same problem where you can talk about it? Where they understand?”
He nodded, tired of the same old advice, over and over. Been there. Done that. Didn’t come close to feeling better.
He wanted to touch her, help her know his hands would always be kind to her. But when he took a step closer she got skittish and clutched her crutches as if preparing to take off—or to use them as defense. It broke his heart.
The damage had been done. He’d managed to alienate the one person who’d always believed in him besides his sister Anne.
“Well, uh, I just wanted to say hi and make sure you hadn’t fallen off the planet, you know?” Her eyes shone as moisture gathered. “I’ve missed you,” she said as she took off on her crutches and headed for home. “See you around,” she said scurrying down the driveway.
Great going, loser. You screwed up again. Maybe he should fall off the planet.
What did it matter? He was no good for anyone. Maybe this was for the best. He didn’t know who he was anymore or what he wanted to do. Or where he belonged. Maybe he should reenlist. Civilian life wasn’t going too well.
He rubbed his aching fist, realizing he’d drawn blood. What could Jocelyn possibly want with him, anyway?
* * *
Jocelyn couldn’t get home fast enough. Wasn’t that exactly what had happened with Rick—he’d simply turned into someone else? Did she need to learn that lesson more than once? Her heart still thumped in her chest as she fumbled with the crutches to go faster, hoping she didn’t stumble.
Lucas wasn’t the guy he used to be. She’d seen him lose it when he was a teenager, but she’d never feared him. Until today. Maybe it was because of Rick, but just now when he’d put his fist through the wall, and with that panicked angry stare he’d leveled at her, Lucas made her tremble—as if he wanted her to—and she’d promised she’d never put herself in that position again.
I’m not the guy I used to be. You can’t say I haven’t warned you.
She wouldn’t have to be warned again.
Once inside the house and, because something in her gut insisted she not let it go just yet, she went directly to the computer. She might have a pile of anatomy pop quizzes to grade and a midterm to organize, but first she intended to do some research on PTSD.
A half hour later she slumped back in her office chair, head full of statistics about an enormous problem. Anywhere from 6 percent to 20 percent of soldiers from Iraq and Afghanistan returned home with some form of PTSD. How could they be helped? Right there in writing, an article said it: just listen. She’d done that the other night when they’d taken a run together and Lucas seemed to open up, relax some. So that was a good start. But then she read the next two sentences out loud.
“Don’t try to fix your vet. The military trains soldiers to be strong and self-sufficient. Asking for help goes against their training.” Great, that’s exactly what she’d just done—offered a snap fix, suggested he try therapy. Farther down the article she read, “Someone who’s always cheerful can be annoying to a returning soldier.” Oh, God, she was a hopeless cheerleader. Always had been. Didn’t Lucas even call her the can-do girl the other day? He’d probably meant it as a snide remark.
As she finished the article, “Helping the Soldiers You Love,” one last encouraging item caught her attention. “With the support of family and friends, wartime stress eases over time. For those who don’t get better, get help. It’s out there. However, for the newly returning soldier, sometimes the best PTSD therapy is B + Double S + Triple F—beer + sex + sleep + favorite fast food.”
She gave a tension-relieving smile as hope sparked in her chest. Having a better understanding of PTSD made his outburst less scary.
A mischievous thought involving beer and pizza twined through her mind. Well, what do you know? Maybe she could help him put the BSSFFF method into action.
* * *
Having moved aside the family room furniture to make space for Dad’s daily workout, father and son did the daily routine.
“Two more sets. Come on.” Lucas tolerated the death glare from his father, knowing the man would do anything to get some strength back in his leg. To be independent again. Bart stuck his head in between Lucas and Kieran, no doubt to make sure everything was under control. Dad offered him a benign pat, and when Bart turned to check out Lucas, he sniffed the dog right back, nose to nose. Bart liked that.
The cast had finally come off. Hallelujah. Now Kieran had a lot of work to do to get his muscles back to normal.
“This is exactly what the physical therapist said to do.” Lucas led his father, who was lying on a throw rug over the wood floors, through range of motion, bending and straightening his knee, turning his foot round and round at the ankle, lifting and lowering the leg.
“Well, you know what, son?” Kieran grunted. “You’d make a great P.T. technician. Ever think about torturing people for a living?” he said, face in a grimace while he pushed against Lucas’s hands.
“You’re not serious, right?” The difference in muscle mass between the casted leg and the other was extreme. How could a leg atrophy that much in eight weeks? Not to mention look this dried up and scaly.
“Maybe. You’ve got to think about doing something. Unless you’re planning to live with us the rest of your life, and, well, I’ve got some news for you...”
“Don’t worry. I’m not sticking around much longer.”
When Kieran finished the last set of exercises, and proved he still knew how to balance himself without crutches, Lucas made both of them lunch. Bart happily followed along, hoping that one of them would accidentally on purpose drop food on the floor.
“I’m going to work on the car,” Lucas said. “Want to keep me company?”
“Sure. Now that your mom’s back teaching I’d get lonely without you around.”
He smiled at his dad and saw sincerity in his eyes. Somehow, with their rocky relationship, they’d settled into a comfortable bond over the past several weeks. As they headed out the back door, with Kieran walking a bit gingerly trying out his leg, Lucas pat his father’s back.
“I’ll race you!” Kieran said.
Twenty minutes later, both men sipped sodas from the garage mini refrigerator. Kieran was sprawled out on a chaise lounge in the May sun at the mouth of the garage with Bart by his side contentedly soaking up the rays. Lucas got out the newly arrived vintage 1965 Mustang
car grille.
“You know, at the rate you stick around Whispering Oaks, this classic car won’t ever get a victory lap around town.”
“Don’t even think about borrowing it.” He slipped the grille in place, admired the mint condition and went about securing it.
“Not enough leg space for a man my size.”
“What’s up with that, anyway? How come you’re six-four and I never made it past six-one?”
“Blame it on your mother. She’s the short side of the family.”
“I never wanted to go out for basketball, anyway.”
“What did you want to do? I know I always pushed you into going to college, but...”
“Honestly? I think I wanted to be an auto mechanic. Maybe an auto-body technician. I knew that disappointed you, Dad, but I’m just being honest here, since you asked.”
“Then I’ll be honest, too. I was adamantly opposed to you enlisting instead of going to college.”
Lucas tapped the small wrench in the air. “That was very apparent.”
Dad gave a chagrined smile. “Yeah, I get it. Well, I’ve come to understand that we all have different paths. Not everyone is ready for college right out of high school.”
“Thank you! Finally, I make my point.”
“Okay, don’t rub it in, but that was then, this is now. Since you’ve been home, you’ve been a great help, and your mother and I are truly grateful.” His dad paused. “Now, I don’t want to lecture by saying maybe it’s time to explore college. But you’ve got the GI Bill to help pay for it. You’ve obviously got the brains. Add that with life experience. Man, you’re good to go.”
Lucas took a step back to admire his handiwork, then glanced at his father. “You want to hear a little secret?”
“I’m all ears.”
“I’ve already signed up for a couple of basic education courses online. I start this summer.”
“That’s great!” His father’s happy and surprised expression nearly made Lucas laugh. The man almost blew soda bubbles out his nose.
“I’m looking into some programs Jocelyn told me about for sports medicine or maybe physician’s assistant. Lots of medics go that route. And that physical therapy idea you had is a good one, too, Dad.”
“Are you serious? That’s fantastic.”
“No guarantees. I’m just looking into things, Dad. I didn’t want to say anything until I’d made up my mind, but since you’re nagging me...”
“Son, my lips are sealed. I won’t interfere with your decision. And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to. You see, I’ve grown up some, too.”
“Thanks.” Lucas reached for and shook his father’s hand and let the sun warm his shoulders and top of his head. Now, if he could only erase that awful scene with Jocelyn four days ago.
“One other thing.” The moment they broke their grip, Kieran’s finger came up in the air. “About decisions and Jocelyn? When are you going to open your eyes to see...”
“End of discussion, Dad.” Suddenly the Mustang needed his undivided attention. He stepped back into the garage, feeling the air cool several degrees even as his face heated up.
“But...”
“End of discussion.” Lucas had torn a page out of Coach Grady’s game book. That felt kind of good, too.
After a long silence, his dad dozed off. Lucas fiddled contentedly with the car, ran into the house for the camera to take some pictures of it and thought about snapping one or two of his father all slack-jawed in the lounger but decided to be nice. Soon another hour had passed, and presently Kieran came to with a snort loud enough to send Bart out of his doggie dreams.
He scrubbed his face and repositioned his ball cap. “Well,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got the four o’clock news to watch. Better head inside.”
Lucas was sitting in the car, dealing with a stubborn latch on the glove compartment. “See you later.”
No more than two minutes after his dad had gone back inside the house, Jocelyn came limping up the driveway. Lucas was still in the car, though now idling the engine. His innards tensed, and his foot accidentally pushed on the gas. The engine revved.
She carried a pizza box, and a couple of beers hanging from their plastic nooses dangled from her fingers.
“Hi, Lucas!” she said cheerfully, as if nothing had ever happened.
“Hey,” he said, feeling embarrassed and mixed-up inside and trying to play down her arrival. He cut the engine and hopped out of the car.
“I need to ask you a question,” she said.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
She wore shorts, and he could see the swelling on her sprained ankle had drastically gone down over the past week, though the bruising was a deep purple with hints of yellow. Her knees were scabbed, yet her legs still looked great. Because her tank top didn’t reach her hip-hugging shorts, her midriff and flat stomach were hard to ignore. She had to know exactly what she was doing to him. His own engine revved a little.
She plopped the pizza box on the garage counter and opened it, the tomato-and-cheese aroma immediately perking up his taste buds. “Want some pizza?”
Chapter Nine
After handing Lucas a beer, Jocelyn hopped up on the garage counter, flipped around and sat. “Ouch,” she said. “I forget how tight my scabs are.”
Sure enough, a small drip of blood seeped from the crease of her left knee.
She opened the other can and took a quick swig, ignoring her weeping scab.
“Swelling’s gone down,” he pointed out, as if she hadn’t known. The bandage fit snug around her ankle with bruising shooting above like purple and blue fireworks.
“Yeah, I can put some weight on it now, too.”
“I noticed.” He’d noticed a lot more when she’d walked up the driveway, too. Like how glad he was to see her after last time when he’d scared her and how great those shorts fit. How sweetly forgiving she’d always been with him, grinning like nothing had ever happened, and how if he tilted his head just so, he could see that patch of skin beneath her tank top.
She helped herself to the pizza and looked damn cute with three inches of mozzarella hanging from her chin as she ate. She gathered the cheese with her fingers, tilted her head and slid the strings into her mouth, taking cute to the sexy-as-hell realm. He gulped half the can of beer.
She flapped the lid of the pizza box from his favorite local Italian joint. “Come on, have a piece. You know you want to.”
Did she have a clue how tempting and right-on her innocent invitation was? He hopped over the car door rather than open it and took his time walking toward Jocelyn and the pizza, a half-hitched smile tugging on his face. He wouldn’t dare say what he was thinking.
Lucas took an extra-large triangle, folded it in half and shoved a third into his mouth. Man, he’d forgotten how fantastic New York–style pizza tasted, even in California. He’d made the hamburger drive-through run the first or second day he’d gotten home, but taking care of Dad had put a crimp in his eating out. “This is great,” he said, mouth way too full to talk.
She smiled widely and took another bite, nailing him with a coy stare all the while.
He swallowed and narrowed his eyes. “What are you up to?”
“Can’t a girl eat pizza with her next-door neighbor?” She acted all innocent, confirming his suspicions about her having something planned.
He drank more beer, took another third of the pizza slice with one bite and waited.
“So, I wanted to invite you and your parents to the last track meet of the season this Saturday.”
“I knew there was a catch.” He smiled, glad she’d brought him food and beer to butter him up before popping the question.
She smiled back. “Well? Will you come?”
“Of course. Just warn me before the guns go off.” He grinned, then licked at the pizza sauce on the corner of his mouth.
Jocelyn watched intently. “Here’s a hint.” Her gaze slowly moving from his mouth to
his eyes. “It happens before each race.”
He connected with her steady stare for a beat or two, considering her easy solution, wondering if he really could avoid overreacting by warning himself about the starting gun.
She finished her slice, wiped her hands on her muscled and toned thighs, then jumped down. “Meet starts at ten on Saturday.” She flipped the lid shut on the pizza box. “By the way, if you want more pizza, you’ll have to come to my house.” After picking up the box, she started to walk away. “Got more beer at my house, too.”
He cocked his head, finished his beer and piece of pizza and watched her walk away, that playful ponytail swaying almost as much as her hips. She’d teased and taunted him with carbs, beer and sexual innuendo—enough to make him want more, and hell yeah, he definitely wanted more.
“Let me clean up here.” He glanced around the garage wondering how quickly he could pick things up. “I’ll meet you over at your house.”
She didn’t bother to turn around as she walked away, just waved above her head. The other day, she’d been the girl with the trembling lip and now she’d morphed into pure confidence. She was either oblivious to her actions or highly trained on how to seduce a soldier—and he had to find out which it was.
* * *
It didn’t take Lucas long to holler into the house. “I’m going over to Jocelyn’s.” It brought him right back to his childhood when he used to play in her backyard. She was always great at imagination games and was also willing to play catch, except it was more like, let’s pretend that if we miss a catch we fall into the ocean and have to dodge sharks and swim to shore. Yeah, whatever, Joss. He used to act like her ideas were crazy, yet he’d always go along with them because they were fun. Then again, she’d gone along with some of his wacky ideas back then, too.
As he headed toward her front steps he wondered what kind of crazy idea she had this time and why he was so willing to go along. Pizza. Beer. Joss. Sounded like a good combination to him. He whistled a tune as he took two stairs at a time.
She met him at the screen, let him in, handed him another beer and closed and latched the door behind him. Hearing the lock click shut and seeing the serious glint in her eyes produced a light chill that tickled the back of his neck.
